


The Recruitment of a Greek Soldier

by TakisAngel



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: 1900s, 1912, Army, Corfu, Gen, Greeks, Hellenic republic, Historical Hetalia, History, Human AU, Recruitment, Soldiers, Turks - Freeform, aph ancient greece, aph cyrpus, aph greece, aph nyo!ancient greece, balkan war, colonel spyros spyromilis, cyrpus as sideris, ellas - Freeform, epirus front, first balkan war, greek army, greek brothers, greek soldiers, heracles - Freeform, himara, himara revolt of 1912, kingdom of greece, mama greece, that's about it i think - Freeform, the greek family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-08
Updated: 2018-01-08
Packaged: 2019-03-02 09:28:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13315296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TakisAngel/pseuds/TakisAngel
Summary: Heracles is packing his things before heading off to the recruitment station in Corfu, to fight in the war and take back Himara, but he stumbles upon a few memories of home and his mother on his way out the door. Historical Hetalia, no pairings, First Balkan War, Greece (Heracles), Cyprus (Sideris), Ancient Greece (Mama), and Nyo!Ancient Greece (Theo Achilles).





	The Recruitment of a Greek Soldier

Heracles hesitated when his hands brushed his favorite jacket, bought as a name day gift from his little brother and hemmed by his mother for many days after. It was a worn, gray thing, one that barely kept up with his growth into the 19-year-old man he was that night, but he knew that any type of clothing, especially in October, would be crucial and wanted in the army, even if it was just a volunteer position. He stashed the jacket into the loose sack with the rest of his clothing, haphazardly shoving spare pants and socks into the bag before standing up and throwing it over his shoulder. He noted how surprisingly light the sack was as he strode over to the door, ready to pick up some food and dash out the door before anyone woke up to the sound of his hurried footsteps.  
As the young man grabbed a piece of slightly stale bread, his mind wandered to the day he and his little brother had gone to the marketplace, and with the pitter patter of the rain and the alertness that came with that jittery adrenaline, it didn’t much seem that distant of a memory.   
_“Heracles!” the boy shouted, shoving the cap harder on his head through the wild wind and grinning at his taller brother who dashed across the street to meet him. “Did you see that?!”  
“I saw it, Sideris, but if Mama did she would have a heart attack. You can't just cross the street like that, there are horses and things that can run you over,” Heracles sighed for the millionth time before rustling the 7 year old’s hair. “Let’s just get the bread and go back home.” He looked up at the sky and added, “Before the storm come and blows us away.”  
“That can’t happen,” Sideris ordered as they jogged to the best bakery in all of Corfu. “Wind can’t blow people away!”  
“Tell that to Theo Achilles, he got blown off a cliff once.”  
Sideris’s eyes widened as the wind screeched into the alleyway and crawled up the walls, before he hastily said, “No he didn’t!”  
“Yeah, he did. Theia Maria told me.”  
“Nu-uh!”  
“Yu-huh!”  
“Nu-uh!”  
“Well I’m older so I know better than you, so I’m right anyway,” Heracles sniffed, putting his long hair behind his ears and wishing he brought a hairband to stop the whipping strands that blocked his view. The two stopped in front of a sign after a few quick turns and dashed inside.  
“Well if it isn’t the little street urchins of Corfu! What can I get for you today?” the baker said, smiling at his frequent customers and gesturing to the fresh pile of bread and treats on the wall. “You’re just in time, we have some fresh koulourakia in the ovens that’ll be ready in just a moment!”   
“Hello, sir!” Sideris chirped, waving at their old friend before saying, “Some bread please!”  
“Let me do the ordering, Mama gave me the money,” Heracles mumbled but nodded his agreement before the baker grabbed a piece of bread off the walls.   
“How many?”  
“One,” Heracles replied and plucked out a few drachmas from his pocket. Without even asking the price he plopped the money on the counter and the 10-year-old waited for the baker to hand over the bread.  
“Here you go, kids,” the baker chirped. “Are you sure you don’t want any koulourakia? They might go to waste because of this wild storm we’re having, so consider them half off!”  
“No thank-” Heracles started before catching a glimpse of his brother’s wide puppy eyes.  
“Please, Heracles? Just one?” Using the baby-brother face that he’d always been weak to, Heracles gave in and dug a few more drachmas out of his pocket. He’d have to save up his money next month.   
Koulourakia now in hand, the two boys skipped out of the delicious haven of sweets and bread and chomped on the braided cookies while dodging the bullets of horses and ragged cars, splashing in puddles and following the wild wind home._  
Heracles was jogged out of his memory when the house shuddered from a sudden gust of wind, and he cursed himself for his foolishness for wasting time like this. He was supposed to be at the recruitment center already, Major Spyromilios was leaving for mainland Greece the following morning, and like hell he was going to be left behind!   
He snatched a cask of alcohol from the top cupboard where his mother always hid it and unscrewed the top, taking a sniff of the content inside before being assured that, yes, there was ouzo and a speck of whiskey in the old jug. He stuffed that in the sack as well, and as the rain hammered on the tiles and dripped onto the one spot on the floor they never fixed, his mind drifted once more to the first time he drank alcohol, smiling a bit as the memory popped into his thoughts.  
 _Sideris was watching starstruck as Heracles held up the bottle, shaking it a bit like a professional and sniffing the drink before saying, “Ah yes, fine ouzo indeed.”  
“How do you know?” his brother said in a hushed voice, speaking low in fear that their mother would come barging into their room and see they broke into her cabinet.   
“It smells wifty.”  
“That’s not a real word!” he huffed  
“How do you know?” He paused for a moment as his younger brother stuttered before muttering that he was still right, though Heracles still felt a gloating sense of satisfaction, even though he didn’t know what their mother's throwaway term meant either.   
“What does it taste like?” he said with wide eyes.  
“I haven’t tried it yet, stupid.” The 14-year-old rolled his eyes and held the bottle leisurely. “I’ll drink it whenever I want to.” His brother sat there for a few moments before his impatience broke the silence once again.  
“Can you try it now?”  
“No.”  
“Now?”  
“No.”  
A few seconds passed. “Now?”  
“Alright, I’ll try it! But only because you keep insisting.” Heracles sniffed the bottle again before taking a deep breath. It smelled somewhat like grapes, though nothing like the wine their mother would offer time to time. After a few seconds of building up his courage, the teenager gulped down the all the liquor in the small bottle and gagged. “God, what is that?!”  
“It doesn’t taste good?”  
“What do you think?!” Heracles gagged, passing the drink to his little brother. “It tastes like that god awful licorice you can get from the street stands at the platia!”  
“I love licorice,” Sideris considered thoughtfully before shrugging and taking a gulp himself. After letting the taste set in for a few seconds he raised an eyebrow at his almost heaving sibling. “It doesn’t taste that bad, Heracles.”  
“It tastes like dog feet!”  
“It tastes like candy and you know it.”  
“Yeah, BAD candy. You can have the rest, bleh.”  
“Mama said every Greek loves ouzo, so you must be broken or something. Are you sure you don’t want to try it again?”   
“I’d rather kiss the Turk that killed Theo Achilles than drink that garbage.”  
“So he didn’t die from the wind!”  
“Of course not, dummy. He died from a bullet when we tried to take Crete back. I think. Doesn’t matter, that stuff tastes like crocodile ass and I’m not drinking it.”  
Sideris got quiet and looked at the container thoughtfully. “Turks killed Theo Achilles?”  
“Yeah, the bastards.” After taking a look at his brother’s depressed face he rushed, “Don’t worry, we’ll get them back for it when we take over Anatolia and Macedonia and beat the Ottomans dead! And we’ll go to war and get our land back and avenge Theo Achilles. Now, throw that gunk away or something before I chucked it out of a window.”   
Sideris shrugged and doused the rest of the bottle. “It still tastes like candy,” he sighed disappointedly.   
“Oh shut up.”_  
Heracles stared a the bottle in his hands, unaware that he had taken it out of the sack. It didn’t taste bad to him now that he had drunken it time and time again, but his little brother still was the one that worshipped the drink. He sighed and stashed the bottle away again, resolving to drink it on the road, and made one last circle around the kitchen for any food to take with him on the way to the recruiting station. Taking a few hair bands off the counters to tie back his brown hair and a pack of cards, Heracles started to head out towards the door.   
One last memory waited for him in the doorway as his feet dragged on the wood and drew to a stop. A notch on the doorway, that was all. It was a notch their mother made when they bought a new door when some cannon or gun blew it off, back in the past. Heracles once again rubbed the notch for good luck, even giving a light knock as he willed his feet to move again. Still, the memory that haunted the doorway dripped over him and left him stranded in that single moment.  
 _“What is it, Mama? Who are they?” Heracles whispered, watching the parade of soldiers and horses with wide eyes. Cannons and wagons and men marched past their little house on the main street, and his mother dived back inside, eyes wide. and hands shaking._  
“It’s the soldiers, Heracles. They’ve come to fight for Greece against those who wish to harm us,” she smiled, but traces of fear lingered in her tugging hands and the way she ushered him away from the doorway.   
“Why are there so many?” he asked, cocking his head to the side and eyeing the proud soldiers in brilliant uniforms, the musicians that followed behind them, the glistening guns, and the way the woman on the street waved handkerchiefs and smiled with something lustful in their eyes. “Why did they come to Corfu?”  
“This island is valuable, and they want to show off. Now come inside.”  
“I don’t want to,” he objected, waving his mother’s hands away before rushing down the steps, eyes filled with the shiny picture of glory in front of him. “Did they come to kill the Turks?”  
“Nonsense! There are no Turks here, at least, not as many. Please, Heracles, come inside,” she whispered, her pleading eyes turning him away from the pretty illusion in front of him and dragging him inside the old house.  
“Why can’t I watch them?” He jerked his arm away from her in defiance as the door closed and she held him, taking a step back and crossing his arms, his eyes dancing with a religious fervor. “It’s just the army, Mama. I’m 15, you can’t order me around like a child!”  
His mother became silent, wringing her hands and pulling her scarf tighter over her head. She stepped towards him cautiously, taking his hands and bringing him in close.  
“My Heracles,” she managed to get out from her suddenly choked throat, “Don’t you see?” She touched her forehead with his, her beautiful oldest son, who looked so much like his father, and she whispered, “If you learn to love them so much, I’m afraid one say they might steal you away from me.” She left the words stuck in her throat, but they still rang in the air.  
I don’t want you to die.  
Heracles jerked his hand away from the wood, wiping the somehow tainted hand on his pants and jumping down the steps. He let himself have one last look at the house behind him, taking in the squat roof, the narrow walls, the weathered steps. Finding himself blinking back a strange prickling in his eyes, he turned away, following the road to the recruitment station, choosing the path of the soldier, the man who would fight for his country in the name of the ancestors that his mother wore on her shawl, the path of a volunteer for the battles in the north, to fight in the great Balkan War in 1912.   
With his back turned, he never saw a pair of tired, crying eyes behind the window of his mother’s room, or the brown hair of an abandoned brother left alone on the bedroom floor.

**Author's Note:**

> Historical footnotes: “At early October 1912, Gendarmerie Major Spyros Spyromilios, a native of Himara, moved to the Greek island Corfu, opposite Himara. His mission was to organize groups of volunteers consisting of northern Epirus Greeks. He also received orders from the Greek government to communicate with the local Albanian beys of the surrounding regions. This unit was later reinforced by additional 200 Greek volunteers from Crete sent by General Konstantinos Sapountzakis, commander of the Greek army in Epirus front.” - via Wikipedia, Himara Revolt of 1912.


End file.
